


As You Are

by bandages



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Post-The Final Problem, with a question mark bc it kinda starts in the middle of the end of tfp and goes from there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9357677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandages/pseuds/bandages
Summary: "still, this boat ain't built for weatherrocking slowlydown she goes"aka what should have happened(fluffy, sappy 'fix-it' thing i wrote after watching tfp)





	

**60**

It wasn't a shock blanket, but it might as well been, it should have been, given the state of the man currently trying to physically meld himself into the material of the fabric wrapped around his shoulders. A shoddy towel, that's all they'd given him.

**59**

Shivering, droplets of waters dripping from the strands of hair that reached out this way and that over the top of his head, running down into his face. He was soaked to his very core, layers of soggy clothing sticking to his already freezing frame.

**58**

Sherlock glances at Lestrade, they must've had a conversation because he's giving him that look; that look he always has after he speaks to him. He usually mutes Lestrade.

**57**

No, that's not the whole truth. He's upgraded Lestrade to part-time mute as of late. He figured he owed him as much, being the only one believing him back then. 

**56**

The back then they don't talk about anymore, not really, unless it's a bad night or a hushed tone. The back then Sherlock really shouldn't be thinking about right then but then again-

**55**

God if he could just get him to stop shivering, that'd be great. Sherlock returns his attention to John, eyes flickering to his shuttering frame, giving him a good up and down once more. 

**54**

"Take a p-picture, it'll last longer." John tries to spit out, but it comes out so horribly pitiful that they both pretend nothing's been said at all. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak just as the words vanish from his throat, leaving him with nothing but a heavy release of air through his nose. John looks away.

**53**

"What-what-WHAT are you doing, Sh-Sherlock?" John fumbles, trying to free his hand from the detectives grasp, but to no avail. Sherlock doesn't give him the satisfaction of a look.  
"You're a doctor, I'll allow you your deductions." A pause, barely a beat. "I'm taking your pulse."

**52**

John scoffs at that, the first, genuine laugh Sherlock's heard in probably well over 24 hours. It sounds painful in his chest. "Oh, really? Thought you were just keen on holding hands now."

As the words leave his mouth, John becomes aware of it. 

**51**

Not the fact that Sherlock is actually kind-of-sort-of-purely-technically-speaking holding his hand, but the feeling of it. 

**50**

The detective's hands are warm, a warmth that seeps into John's hand, into his aching bones, joints, into the whole of his being.

**49**

The rest of him begins to feel exponentially colder in comparison.

**48**

Sherlock's fingers wrap around his wrist, eyes flickering absently across empty space as he counts each beat in his head. For the world's leading consulting detective, John muses in a moment of clarity, he can be extraordinarily ignorant sometimes.

**47**

No, wait, he already knew that. He wrote about it in his blog once, that's where it was from. The great solar system debate. How could he forget.

**46**

Then again, there's a number of excuses for John's forgetfulness right now. He's been put through a hell-like torturous couple of hours in an environment way too reminiscent of Saw to be comfortable, frozen to his very bones, nearly drowned, and now,  _now_ -

**45**

Now Sherlock wasn't taking his pulse.

**44**

His fingers have traveled a bit farther down. Not entirely laced together, but close enough to make John's heart skip a good beat or two in surprise. His fingertips are barely touching his palm, the soft bit just before where his fingers begin.

**43**

He wills himself to look up, to meet the eyes of the detective.

**42**

He doesn't expect the sheer softness of them, though. God strike him down where he stands if he's a liar, but honest to all things holy, he's never seen that much concern, genuine, real, glassy-eyed, heart-on-his-sleeve concern in his best friend's eyes. Maybe in anyones. 

**41**

And really, what is there to say? He's holding Sherlock's hand. It's warm, soothing. He doesn't want to let go, he finds, and the idea of it is highly unpleasant to think about so he chooses not to. Instead allows himself to indulge in his senses, to feel the safe, comforting heat radiating from the taller man directly into him. The towel he'd had thrown over his shoulders feels like a bag of ice compared to this.

**40**

"John, are you alright? Really?"

**39**

"Yeah you've asked me that." A pause to lick his lip, stare down the detective who does not back down from the challenge. "Two times, now, I'd say? Unless we're counting total tonight then i'd guess-"

**38**

There's a squeeze around his hand, a pull back into reality, the here and now. One he didn't realize he needed. Flashes of the well cross his mind and in response John shifts his weight from one leg to another, involuntary. 

**37**

By the time John recovers Sherlock is cocking his head to one side like a confused puppy so he has to do something.  _Anything_. So he clear his throat, breaks eye contact. He lost but who cares, it doesn't matter.

**36**

"Well, all things considered..." There's no real cover up, no real way to dance around what he's actually feeling that will convince the detective, he knows that. So John breathes deep, allows his mind the chance to stop racing light years ahead of him. "I'm still in one piece, so that's something, yeah?"

**35**

For a single, horrifying moment John thinks it's over; that's the worst possible thing he could have said. Sure, he's in one piece, but who's not? John knows. John knows  _Sherlock_  knows. His stomach turns dangerously in the stretch of silence that follows.

**34**

And then Sherlock laughs. Really, seriously laughs; and John knows the difference, between his fake and his real one, no matter how much he'll argue the fact. He'd be fighting John on that one to his deathbed but he  _knows_  when Sherlock is really laughing and this is one of those moments.

**33**

"You are." Sherlock agrees through his laughter, eyes searching for something they're not finding in John's; eyes that are growing glassier by the second. "You are."

**32**

"I am." John states, and it sounds more like a question. "Sorry, are-are  _you_ alright? I mean I know you've been interviewed to hell and back by that lot but I mean-" A pause, unsure. "I mean seriously, Sherlock. Are you alright?"

**31**

And it's not a question, it's a command. Sherlock recognizes the difference without skipping a beat, lips forming a thin line.

**30**

It seems all at once the two become aware of the hand still wrapped around John's, neither making a move to pull away, or pull closer, or do anything but suck in anticipatory, anxious breathes.  Because what else is there to do? 

**29**

Sherlock swallows thickly, audibly, mouth opening a couple times as he tries to speak. 

**28**

"You are alright." Sherlock says simply, it sounds more to himself, to the air around him, than to John himself. 

**27**

John blinks, once, and then twice. "Yes." He draws out the word, questioning. 

**26**

"You are." A very heavy pause, Sherlock goes to meet his gaze but seems to fail the attempt, faltering at the last second. "Alright."

**25**

John isn't the one in need of stabilizing anymore. Sherlock notes in the back of his mind, somewhere, that John has stopped shivering, yet his pulse remains erratic, his movements jittery. 

**24**

Could be coincidence.

**23**

The universe is rarely so lazy. So boring.

**22**

Sherlock closes a bit of the gap between them, not completely, but enough to be noticeable; enough that John can feel the heat radiating off of him. The hand wrapped around his gives a light squeeze, so gentle he doubts he would have noticed it had he not been paying such close attention.

**21**

"Then," Sherlock continues, breathes materializing in puffs of pure white smoke, disappearing along with the words their carried on. "I'm fine."

**20**

John finds breathing more and more difficult, and it isn't the cold anymore. Still, years of army training, he can keep a straight face, so he does. The only outward reaction he appears to have is to blink once. "Right. Good."

**19**

Except it isn't, because of course it isn't, when has he ever been so lucky. He shutters along with the warm caress of a breath against his cheek, body betraying him.

**18**

A sharp inhale.

**17**

"John I-I want to do...something, I think." Sherlock's voice wavers, just on the brink of cracking under the pressure.

**16**

For a moment he's lost for words, but they seem to find his way up his throat and out of his mouth before he has a say in the matter. "Alright, off you go then."

**15**

His hand isn't being held anymore, John let's it unceremoniously drop to his side.

**14**

The chill that rushes over his now abandoned hand is so unbearably cold it feels inhuman. It hurts, in more ways than one. 

**13**

"It's just that..." Sherlock is closer now, might as well be glued to the shorter man's front; John can feel each breath now, the strange mixture of mint and tar on his breath conflicting so sweetly with the warmth of it. It's incredibly unfair. 

**12**

"I almost lost you." Oh, there was an end to that sentence.

**11**

"You didn't." John reaffirms. "I'm right here."

**10**

"You are." A laugh, bitter and heart wrenching. God, those eyes, they hurt just to look at. "You are."

**9**

John's eyes flicker to Sherlock's lips. From there it's all over, he knows it. He can't comfort himself with the thought of oh, maybe he didn't notice? Of course he did. He notices everything. The reaction is immediate, and the expression that washes over the detective contains a hint of, if John were to venture a guess, something like relief. Relief of anxiety, of any fear that was once there.

**8**

But it's back in a mere second, when suddenly Sherlock's hands are reaching up, then they're cupping John's face. 

**7**

John's cheeks are red from the cold, sting to the touch. 

**6**

Sherlock waits for another surge of adrenaline to rush through him, push him through the next part, but it doesn't come. 

**5**

The silence is overwhelmingly loud. John knows Sherlock can hear every single sound surrounding them. The chatter, the police sirens, the lights flashing in his peripheral vision. Can feel the slight, leftover shaking of John's chilled body.

**4**

"Is this it then?" John asks, nearly laughs at his own question but finds he can't with the lump in his throat.

**3**

"No." It's a whisper, barely audible. The word ghosts against John's skin in a way that makes his chest flip flop and his heart stop beating for a moment.

**2**

The gap once between them is nonexistent now, but not only that. The police sirens, the old house, the ambulance, all of it,  _all of it is gone_. It's them now.

**1**

"This is."

 

 

And then he's kissing him. Sherlock is kissing him.

It's chaste, it's hesitant, it's searching and testing the waters with just a hint of desperation; but above all it's infuriatingly gentle.

The brush of Sherlock's lips is a ghost of a touch, yet somehow still manages to burn a beautifully bright heat into his lips, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.

John's hands travel up without his permission to cling to Sherlock by his forearms, dig his fingers into the fabric of the man's coat until his knuckles are white; clings like he's a lifeline, keeping his head just above water. 

The thought occurs to him that this could be one of Sherlock's experiments, because he has to at least consider it, right? Still, his stomach does a 360 at the idea.

But if it were an experiment, Sherlock would be watching him for results, calculating eyes taking in every reaction, every twitch and tilt of his head, twist of his fingers. 

So John wills himself to crack his eyes open, just a bit, enough to find Sherlock's eyes have long since fluttered closed, his entire being focused on nothing but John  _John John-_

 __  
  


Then it's over, almost as soon as it started, the detective pulling away just enough that he's not far away, there's no threat of him disappearing. No, he rests his head against John's, and John shivers a bit when he feels a hand rest around his back of his neck, and oh God how long has he been staring at him like that.

"John, I, I'm sorry I-"

"Nope." John states, in that matter of fact tone that renders Sherlock absolutely speechless with that dumbfounded look he loves so much. "No, no, don't do that, Sherlock. We're not doing that."

"You didn't let me finish." Okay, not  _completely_  speechless, then. Sherlock bites his bottom lip in thought, and John can't help but subconsciously lick his own at the sight. He doesn't bother comforting himself with the possibility he didn't notice and doesn't know what it means, because maybe he doesn't have to worry about it anymore. 

 

"John I, I meant to- I meant to do so much, I meant to say so much, to you, I meant to-" There's a pause, Sherlock's breathing hitching in his throat. "But I didn't. And then before I knew it I-I couldn't. I... I  _couldn't."_

A ghost of Mary crosses John's mind, and he knows. He knows too well.

"And I know-I know with what you just experienced you-you very nearly drowned and it's just the fact that you're alive right now, you're still here alive in front of me you're-" He is not crying. He is  _not_ crying right now. Oh Christ he had to be doing this on purpose. "You. Are. Alright." 

His voice cracks in a way so soft and broken John wants to hold him in his arms and never let go, hide him from the world.

So he does. John wraps his arms around Sherlock, effectively shoving the taller man's face into the crook of his neck; rocks him back and forth, subtly, softly. He can be his brave, strong man any other day; right now, he's allowed to be soft, he's allowed to be scared. He's allowed to be fucking traumatized because he is, and that's okay. It's okay it's okay it's okay. 

John realizes halfway through this train of thought that he's been saying all of this out loud. It doesn't matter, it's true, it's what Sherlock needs to hear, and he's not about to let go of him.   
John holds on for the longest time, as long as Sherlock will let him. 

 

When the detective pulls himself away again, there's a pause he takes to collect himself, move his attention to anything but John Watson. 

"We, erm..." His voice trails off, Sherlock's eyes flickering back to John. "221b?"

"It's in pieces." John replies, waits for a response. Sherlock's eyes are moving in the way that he can practically physically see the gears in his mind turning. 

"I know." A hint of a small smile tugs at his lips. "We should get on that one, shouldn't we? Hope the skull made it through."

It's contagious, John smiles right along with him. "Which one?"

Sherlock catches his gaze, and the two can't help the laughter bubbling up in their chests. Of course, two men breaking into laughter amidst the flashing lights of ambulances and police cars would turn a couple heads, and it does, but it doesn't matter. 

There's work to be done, a home to be glued back together, cases to be solved- and most of all, as John ever so slyly implies on the taxi drive home from the hospital a day later, many, many kisses to catch up on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> so, tfp left me a very sad, very bitter (but mostly sad) gay boy so i wrote this out pure spite and distress lol. but also (mostly, really), out of all of the love i have in my heart and soul for these two characters who deserved so, so much better.
> 
> i left it open to more chapters because, who knows? i might write some more if the mood strikes!  
> regardless, thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed!! love you <3


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